On a real hunt, the outcome is never assured.

Photo above: This was home for two weeks during the 2023 Alaska Peninsula brown bear season. Boddington saw a big bear three times, but came home empty-handed.

I just got back from a wet, windy brown bear hunt on the Alaskan Peninsula. I saw a good bear in the 10-foot class three times. There’s no sprinting in muskeg, and we were glassing him from a distance. Every time we got to the last place we’d seen him, he’d vanished, swallowed up in the big country. End result: No bear.

As my friend Conrad Evarts described me on my seventieth birthday, I’m “pathologically optimistic…and dangerously masochistic.” I don’t mind tough hunts, and I always go in expecting success. If success weren’t anticipated, I don’t know how I could put myself through this stuff. Great expectations aside, the reality of hunting is we can’t always make things happen.

I hate to get beat, and I hate it even more on a difficult and costly hunt like an expedition for an Alaskan brown bear. To some extent, it’s mind over matter: The country doesn’t mind, and we don’t matter.

On another level, it’s the very unpredictability of hunting that makes it so attractive. On any given outing, we don’t know what’s going to happen. For sure, we can’t control weather and game movement. So, we make the best plans, trying to hit the right places at the best times. We bring the right gear, get in the best shape possible, and spend plenty of time at the range so we can take advantage of an opportunity. Even so, sometimes it’s just not going to happen. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but if you can’t choke it down, you’re in the wrong game.

Random luck is a factor. You might hunt as hard as you can, but sometimes the right animal can’t be found or doesn’t present itself for a shot. Some hunters seem luckier than others, but this comes and goes. When I was a young hunter, I seemed charmed. Wherever I went, I filled my tag. My Dad called me “Lucky Pierre.”

Sooner or later, even the luckiest (and best) hunter gets a comeuppance. Mine was on my first safari, in Kenya. The animal I wanted most was a lion. I’d read Hemingway and Ruark. I figured if you paid your money and hunted hard, you’d get your lion. By the mid-1970s, chances weren’t nearly as good as I thought, but I didn’t know that. I passed a couple of young males on about the eighteenth day. The PH and I were both proud of ourselves that we passed. The twentieth and next-to-last evening, we heard what sounded like a good lion roaring in Tsavo Park. He didn’t come in, and that was that. The safari ended with no lion. I was all in on that hunt, with my budget stretched thin. It was a bitter pill to swallow, and a good lesson.

I’ve been pretty lucky over the last forty-five years. Still optimistic, I always expect to take the animal I’m after. It doesn’t always happen, in part because I’m not the same hunter I was back then. I’m pickier now, and the more selective we are, the worse our chances. 

Everybody knows Arizona holds some of the biggest Rocky Mountain elk, and the odds for drawing are poor, especially for nonresidents. I’ve had three Arizona elk tags and I never got a monster wapiti. Once, if I must admit it, it was because I missed. Hunt enough, and that’s going to happen. When it does, the game isn’t obligated to offer a second chance.

Those Arizona elk hunts were golden opportunities, and I was hoping for greatness…but there were never any guarantees. When you swing for the fences, it must be accepted that you might strike out. Mind you, I don’t always look for the biggest and best. I’m usually happy with a nice, representative animal. In part, this is because I’m a gunwriter, always on a limited budget, and I want to get a good story. Reasonable expectations greatly increase the odds.

Sometimes I break from that, such as on those Arizona elk hunts, but when you pass a good animal looking for a huge one, you are taking a chance. I shot a couple of OK grizzlies when I was young, but later I decided I wanted a big grizzly. Dave Leonard, who hunts the Noatak drainage north of Kotzebue, Alaska, has big grizzlies in his area. The first time I went, it was too early; the bears were just coming out of their dens. The second time, it was too late. There was an early spring, with snowmelt coming fast, and we had to get out. Despite poor conditions, we passed OK bears on both hunts, but I didn’t see the bear I wanted. Fair enough. I tried one more time and hit it right. The third time was the charm, and I took a wonderful grizzly on a moose kill.

Persistence counts. So does planning, but even with the best planning, there are no promises. It’s just part of the deal. Some animals are more difficult than others, and so are some places. In the entire world of big-game hunting, North America offers some of the most difficult hunting, with some of the worst odds for success. Our North American Model of wildlife management dictates that wildlife is a public trust resource, jointly owned by all of us. This is a huge success story and I love it, but it means that our resources are shared among the hunting public. And it means the harvest is often limited by short seasons, which may not be at the ideal time.

Elsewhere in the world, wildlife is often privatized, or owned by the government. As visiting hunters, we are paying for the privilege and funding management, and there are often fewer hunters in the field. This makes hunting on other continents, on average, far more successful than in Canada and the United States. 

Most of my hunts in Europe, Asia, South Pacific, and South America have been successful for the primary game sought. In North America, some of our greatest hunts offer less than 50 percent odds. These include most hunts in Alaska and Canada for elk, moose, the big bears, and sheep. I’ve been generally lucky on sheep and elk, not so much on moose. Newfoundland has Canada’s densest moose population. It took me four tries to get a nice Newfie moose, and in the last decade I’ve been 0 for 3 on western Canada moose.

Research and planning help, but there are still no guarantees. Deal with the possibility of failure, and be certain you’re prepared. It’s easy to say that you’re there for the experience and the memories. Win, lose, or draw, these you will have, but it’s tough when you head home empty-handed, having expended much effort and treasure with nothing tangible to show.

When possible, I like to hedge my bets with consolation prizes. This means combination hunts. Africa is wonderful for this, with multiple species almost always available.  You may not take your primary animal, especially if it is one of the difficult prizes. I didn’t get a lion on that first safari. As consolation, I took most of the East African antelopes, plus the memories of hunting in soon-to-close Kenya. To be honest, it was some years before I appreciated these as much as I do today. I also didn’t get a bongo on my first try, nor a Derby eland on my first hunt for them, and I’ve been beaten by leopards more times than I’ve won.

The blow of failure is softened by success on other species. That said, I cannot argue against the tactic of concentrating on the game you want most, ignoring the rest. Just understand you are going for broke. Thirty years ago, I did that on my first giant eland hunt, passing opportunities for buffalo, kob, waterbuck, and more. I shot nothing at all on that safari, the only time that has happened in my African experience. Since then, I haven’t played an African hunt quite that way!

Armenia was my only unsuccessful Asian hunt. It’s a beautiful country, with friendly people, but I was on a spring hunt after a winter of record snows. The Armenian sheep were across the border in Iran behind snow-blocked passes, and the bears were still in their dens. There were plenty of Bezoar goats around, and they were on license. Hoping for a break, I declined. I don’t regret it because I already had a good Bezoar from Turkey. If I didn’t already have one, I’d have taken the consolation prize!

I talked to a Kansas neighbor just back from his first out-of-state hunt. He went to New Mexico for elk and pronghorn. He didn’t get an elk, which is hardly uncommon. But he was delighted with his excellent pronghorn, a fine consolation prize.

Combinations aren’t always possible. On my unsuccessful brown bear hunt, we had several excellent caribou bulls pass by our spike camp, but the season was closed. We took some good photos, watched ptarmigan and porcupines, and hoped for a break that didn’t come our way. All you can do is make the most of it. I’m older now, and I understand that’s the way it goes sometimes. I hope I can give it another try.

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The hunting community extends a helping hand to one of the world’s most endangered animals.

Photo above: Mike Arnold spends some quality time with a rescued pangolin prior to its release into the wilds of Mozambique.

The tongue of the prehistoric-looking creature flicked in and out, reminding me of a snake. But this tongue belonged to one of the rarest creatures on the globe–the pangolin. Its name derives from the Malay pengguling, referring to something that rolls up. Pangolins defend themselves from predators such as leopards, lions, and hyenas using their thick, sharp-edged scales and the ability to roll into a ball, with the scales on the outside. This one in Mozambique was a Temminck’s pangolin (Smutsia temminckii), also known as a scaly anteater.

Reaching a maximum height of 15 inches, and tipping the scales at only 30 pounds, the Temminck’s pangolin doesn’t enthrall by being large. Its star power rests in its interlocking scales, long-recurved claws used for tearing apart the ground in search of ants and termites, and the previously mentioned tongue. Of all its physical attributes, the pangolin’s tongue takes a back seat only to its scales in the rank of interesting adaptations. We watched as it foraged, continually projecting its sticky tongue to lap up ants uncovered in its excavations. If an adult Temminck’s pangolin fully extended this appendage-–the base is connected near the animal’s pelvis-– the length, around 15 inches, would exceed the length of its body.

Pangolins appeared, according to the fossil record, approximately 65 million years ago. They were once distributed throughout Asia, Southeast Asia, the Indian subcontinent, and Africa. Today, however, they are among the world’s most endangered and trafficked animals. Pangolin poachers capture, kill, and cut up the animals for their scales and meat. With their meat considered an epicurean’s delight and their scales coveted by witch doctors, proponents of Traditional Chinese Medicine, and jewelers, more than 10,000,000 pangolins have disappeared in the past decade.

Zambeze Delta Safaris (ZDS), in partnership with local Sena villagers, is beginning a major restoration effort centered around the pangolin. The reintroduction thus far has restored a handful of animals to nature; animals rescued from poachers by the Mozambique equivalent of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Once confiscated, pangolins are airlifted by helicopter into the ZDS hunting concession, Mozambique’s Coutada 11. Upon arrival, the resident scientists, Willem Briers-Louw and Tamar Kendon immediately launch the rehabilitation phase, with the animals often arriving dehydrated and underfed by their passage through the poachers’ hands. Once the rehabilitation ends, the scientists equip each of the scaly creatures with a small version of the satellite-tracking devices used for lions, leopards, cheetahs, and elephants. In the pangolins’ case, the trackers (tags) attach to the scales at the base of each animal’s tail.

ZDS’s Mark Haldane and his wife, Laurette, are self-funding the initial efforts. When asked about the money needed for the pangolin rescue/reintroduction to continue, Mark said, “We’ll start the fundraising soon because with the successful relocations so far, we know it works.”

The pangolin I was watching had just been released by Tamar and Willem into the landscape. As we walked back to the Land Cruiser, I couldn’t help but reflect that we were witnesses to yet another seriously endangered species wandering around in a restored, natural environment, all because hunting outfitters and their clients make long-term investments in money, time, and energy. Non-hunters sometimes assume hunters’ interest in nature always involves the crack of a rifle shot. The Coutada 11 Pangolin Project belies that assumption.

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Which upland game bird is the most challenging to hunt… and to hit?

Photo above: Lori Thomas is about to drop a Mearns quail over a point by her late German wire-haired pointer, Maggie. Tough shots in dense cover are typical for this species. Photo by Don & Lori Thomas

Superlatives can be tricky, especially when trying to name the best of anything, but we just can’t resist making the attempt. Greatest novel of the twentieth century? Best shotgun of all time?  Babe Ruth or Wille Mays? No matter what the subject, two points are certain: Objectivity will be impossible, and controversy will be inevitable. If you don’t believe me, try telling a diehard Michael Jordan fan that LeBron is the best who ever played the game.

Here’s a question I have frequently debated over dinner with friends after a long day in the field. What is the most challenging upland gamebird in the country? I believe there are two components to the question: the demands of the terrain and the difficulty of hitting the bird on the wing. At the risk of inciting just the kind of controversy mentioned earlier, I’ll share some thoughts, if only to invite discussion.

There are certainly plenty of candidates to choose from. By my rough count, we are home to nearly two dozen varieties of upland game, including non-gallinaceous species like woodcock and snipe but excluding members of the dove family and outliers like the chachalaca and Himalayan snow cock. Some have a regional distribution, leaving them unfamiliar to many readers, but all are legal game somewhere. In other words, it’s a target-rich environment, no pun intended.

While these are purely personal opinions, some can be dropped from consideration at the outset. Turning first to our dozen grouse species, spruce grouse are easy to cross off the list because of their naivety, given that you can kill one with a stick (and I have). Ponderous on the wing and residents of flat, open terrain, sage grouse are so easy that I haven’t hunted them for years, never mind their shaky conservation status. Willow ptarmigan, our most widespread and abundant ptarmigan species, inhabit level ground and offer easy shots during the early season when most of us hunt them. (We’ll get to our other ptarmigan later.) Wary winter ptarmigan of any species are another story, but since most of us don’t do much hunting on snowshoes in sub-zero weather, I’ll ignore them. Perhaps my favorite prairie gamebirds, sharptails, hold wonderfully for pointing dogs, inhabit intermediate terrain, and offer close shots during the early season. Prairie chickens are one of just two American gamebirds I’ve never hunted so I lack any basis for opinion, although friends who have hunted them consider them significantly harder than other prairie grouse.

Quail are delightful gamebirds that offer wonderful hunting over pointing dogs, but with one important exception, they usually offer easy walking and open shots at close range—not to say I’ve never missed one. Snipe defy easy classification, although they offer some of the trickiest wingshooting of any bird on this list.

Hunting any of these birds can be challenging at times, and it’s certainly enjoyable, but I don’t think any deserves consideration as the toughest.

We now reach the middle of the pack, birds that, to paraphrase Brando’s character in On the Waterfront,could have been contenders. They are all tough, gratifying, and a lot of fun to hunt, but each in their own way lacks the sharp edge of difficulty needed to make the top of the list.

At the risk of offense (and I am a life member of Pheasants Forever), I’ll start with our most popular and widely distributed gamebird. Ringnecks are big, beautiful, delicious, and a joy to hunt, but they aren’t our most difficult. A lot of classic Midwestern pheasant cover is easy to walk. They aren’t as fast on the wing as several other birds in this discussion. To give them their due, there are important exceptions to these generalizations. Some western pheasant habitat can be demanding, as I’m reminded whenever I spend a day chasing roosters up and down our steep local coulees. Pheasants are the smartest, wiliest birds on this list, and educated late-season ringnecks can drive even experienced hunters to distraction, with shots then are longer, faster, and more difficult than they are during opening week. They are as hard to bring down quickly as any bird under discussion. Finally, they pose more difficulties for dogs at every stage of the game, running out ahead of points and eluding pursuit by the best retrievers. In summary: close, but not quite gold medal level, because of terrain and easy early season shooting.

When, as a kid in upstate New York, I killed the first two ruffed grouse I shot at, my father told me I should quit while I was ahead, and he had a point. I went through a box of shells before dropping my third. The walking was easy unless we were thrashing through brush, and the toughest part of the shooting came from obstructions in the thick cover they inhabit. However, their behavior changes in the Mountain West, where I now live. Perhaps because of limited hunting pressure, here they behave more like fool hens than the noble gamebirds of New England. 

Woodcock deserve mention. There isn’t a lot of up and down in most woodcock habitat, although fighting through alders is never easy. Their erratic flight patterns through thick cover make them notoriously difficult to hit. Their willingness to hold points is a wonderful characteristic, but their camouflage and reluctance to flush make them very difficult for hunters without dogs. If you had to climb more hills to hunt them, I’d bump them up to the next level.

Now we reach the Final Four, if you will.

I’ll begin by circling back to the two lesser known ptarmigan species. I’ll consider them together because they share a habitat preference for rugged terrain. Rock ptarmigan prefer exposed rocky slopes at higher elevations than willow ptarmigan. They require more hiking to reach, and the footing is usually difficult once you get there. When I lived in Alaska, I covered a lot of tough miles hunting them. White-tailed ptarmigan live even higher up, and have the distinction of being the only one of the three found in the Lower 48. Friends in Colorado hunt them above the tree line at nose-bleeding elevations. Habitat preference accounts for their high position on my list.

My selection of Huns (properly called gray partridge) among the elite may raise some eyebrows. Their habitat is gentle like that of sharptails, and I commonly encounter both on the same morning. True covey birds, they flush like quail with significant differences. The first covey rise often occurs beyond shotgun range. They usually stay together until the third or fourth rise, which is likely to require a lot of hiking to reach. Huns are masters at disappearing behind terrain features, and hunters may not find them again even with good dogs. Unless the covey has broken up, they offer confusion, high speed, and crazy shot angles, all of which is enough to make me consider them one of our most challenging gamebirds.

Now on to one I’m sure many readers have already put atop their list. When I first started hunting chukar, I was a fit teenager and hardly noticed how steep their habitat was. My father did, though, and he told me that I would eventually find climbing those hills exhausting. He was right. Chukar hunting reminds me of hunting sheep or mountain goats. Loose rock underfoot invites slipping, sliding, and falling, and I have banged up more knees—and shotguns—hunting chukar than any other bird in the country except the one that follows. There’s nothing easy about the shooting, either, as they streak past overhead at wild angles rarely seen from any other American gamebird. Chukar earn a solid silver medal.

Now—drumroll—on to my pick for the toughest upland bird, even though it will likely be unfamiliar to many readers because of its limited range. Unless you cross the border, Mearns quail hunting is limited to southern Arizona and New Mexico, where they inhabit mountain foothills with thick live oak canopy. I rank them at the top not because of any one challenging characteristic but because of the way they combine several.

While they sometimes occupy grassy, level canyon bottoms, I more often find them on steep, rocky sidehills. While the terrain may not be quite as demanding as chukar country, I rarely reach a dog on point uphill without having to stop for breath, and the rocks hurt just as much when you tumble. Covey rises are as startling and confusing as with Huns, and require the same concentration to isolate one target from many possibilities. To top it off, shooting through the trees reminds me of hunting ruffed grouse in dense cover back East. As I once had to point out to a bewildered visiting friend, if you’re not huffing, puffing, and shooting oak leaves, you’re not shooting Mearns quail.

There you have it–a long string of personal opinions, as acknowledged from the start. Whether the subject is quarterbacks or game birds, there is no way to objectify discussions of this sort, which is one reason they are so much fun. So, discuss the matter with your hunting partners, secure in the knowledge that none of you will ever be wrong.

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Hunting antelope in Wyoming is always fun, but helping to pass on the hunting tradition makes the experience even better.

The first week of October is my favorite time to be on the high plains of central Wyoming. The cottonwoods in the creek bottoms have turned golden, a few low shrubs are showing their fall colors, and the weather is generally beautiful. Best of all, though, are the hundreds of antelope (in Wyoming, they don’t call them pronghorn) spread out across the sagebrush-dotted landscape. This time of year, the big bucks are jealously guarding their harems of does. When you spot the towering horns and black cheek patches of a mature buck in your binocular, you know that this is what you came for.

As my friend Kristie and I stood on a rimrock cliff overlooking a magnificent swath of Wyoming ranchland, I could see by her expression that she appreciated the experience of being in this landscape as much as I did—perhaps even more so, since this was her first antelope hunt. Kristie didn’t grow up hunting, but she caught the bug in her early twenties and began actively seeking mentors and advice. The two of us are fishing buddies who have spent lots of time together on our favorite rivers in northern Colorado, and I was thrilled to have the opportunity to help her realize her newest outdoor passion. Like me, Kristie has a strong interest in knowing where her food comes from and in taking the responsibility of acquiring meat from its most natural source.

There’s a lot to figure out when you start hunting. The first order of business was finding her a rifle. During our initial trip to the range, I realized that at 5 feet 2 inches tall, Kristie had a hard time shooting most of my standard rifles because the stocks are too long; she was always struggling to get into a comfortable shooting position. But when I had her try my Savage 11 Lady Hunter in 6.5 Creedmoor, it was love at first shot. The short, high-combed stock fit her perfectly, and soon she was shooting impressive groups off the bench at 100 yards. I let her borrow the rifle for a mentored mule deer hunt with Colorado Parks and Wildlife, and she used it to bring down her very first buck.

Last year, Kristie expressed a desire to go antelope hunting, which happens to be one of my favorite things to do in October. I booked us a hunt with SNS Outfitter and Guides, based in Casper, Wyoming, one of the country’s most antelope-rich regions. At that point, Kristie realized she needed a rifle of her own. There was no doubt it would be a Lady Hunter—but what caliber? Because elk are on her eventual hunting wish list, she decided on .308 Winchester—a great do-it-all caliber for big game in the West.

After her rifle arrived, we spent many evenings at the range getting it dialed in. Despite a high-pressure job and a demanding travel schedule, Kristie prioritized her hunting preparations, dry-firing her new rifle at home and testing several different loads at the range. We found a 168-grain factory load shooting Berger Classic Hunter bullets that her new rifle loved, and on our final range trip before the hunt, Kristie shot a one-inch group at 200 yards. She was ready.

We drove to Casper, enjoying glorious fall weather and spotting lots of antelope along the roadside, which added to Kristie’s (and my) excitement. On the first morning of our hunt, we explored the large ranch, spotting an impressive number of antelope. Our guide, Marc, patiently showed us numerous bucks, explaining their behavior and how to judge their horns, and this helped us get a feel for the lay of the land. When we spotted a nice buck hanging out with a single doe on the far side of a small rise, he parked the truck on the ranch road and asked Kristie if she was ready to stalk an antelope. She was! 

We hiked several hundred yards through the sagebrush, taking advantage of the rolling terrain to screen us from the antelope. As we got closer, we dropped to hands and knees and I handed Kristie my leather gloves, a necessity for crawling pain-free through the abundant prickly pear. She and Marc belly-crawled to the top of a small rise and glassed the buck, which was bedded below them. Marc set up the shooting sticks and Kristie rested her .308. The antelope stood, and Kristie wisely waited for it to turn broadside before squeezing off her shot.

Her first shot landed a bit too high, and the antelope began to move off. I could only watch as she and Marc moved to reposition for a second shot. I was a nervous wreck, but Kristie remained remarkably calm—a crucial skill for any hunter–and executed a perfect follow-up shot at 230 yards, dropping her antelope in its tracks. As the adrenaline rush subsided, all three of us overflowed with excitement as we walked up to her buck and admired its striking tan-and-white coat and impressive horns. 

The next day it was my turn, and Kristie tagged along on a fun stalk as Marc and I played cat-and-mouse with another nice antelope buck who was busily tending a herd of does. I finally got a shot from the top of a small rise and dropped the buck with one shot from my 6.5 Creedmoor. 

We headed home the next day with the big cooler in the back of my truck loaded with prime wild meat, a couple of lovely antelope skulls for our walls, and memories of a magnificent adventure on the high plains of Wyoming. For me, though, the best part was seeing my friend take a giant step in her journey as a hunter, a journey I know will provide her with a lifetime of memorable and rewarding experiences.

For information on guided antelope hunts in Wyoming with SNS Outfitter & Guides, go to huntwyo.com.

Learning to Hunt

Learning to hunt as an adult, especially if you have no hunting-savvy family members to guide you, is not easy. The learning curve is steep, and it can be especially tough to find places to hunt and people to hunt with. I have great admiration for people like my friend Kristie—highly motivated and determined to learn, she sought out information, advice, and mentors from numerous sources. Through her experience, I learned there are many organizations providing mentorship opportunities for aspiring “adult-onset” hunters. Here are a few great resources: 

State game agencies: The year before our antelope hunt, Kristie shot her first mule deer on a mentored hunt with Colorado Parks & Wildlife Hunter Outreach Program. Many states offer similar programs, and most offer opportunities for adults as well as kids. Check your state agency’s website or give them a call.

Conservation organizations: Most of the major conservation and hunter-advocacy organizations have mentoring programs and organize in-the-field opportunities for new hunters. Contact the national offices or your local chapters of organizations such as Rocky Mountain Elk Foundation, National Wild Turkey Federation, Ducks Unlimited, Delta Waterfowl, Pheasants Forever, and Backcountry Hunters & Anglers. 

Field-to-Table courses: Field-to-Table and New Hunter courses can be pricey, but there is no better way to learn to hunt, since these several-day workshops teach everything from shooting to hunting skills to field-dressing, butchering, and cooking your wild game. Two I can personally and very highly recommend are run by Outdoor Solutions: fromfieldtotable.com; and Sportsman’s All-Weather, All-Terrain Marksmanship (SAAM): ftwsaam.com.

NRA’s Hunter Ed program: For working adults, finding a hunter safety course that fits into a busy schedule can be a real challenge. In an effort to help with this, the NRA has developed an excellent and very comprehensive free online hunter education course. It’s currently approved to certify hunters in thirteen states. Check it out at nra.yourlearningportal.com

About Savage Lady Hunter Rifles

Both of our antelope were taken with Savage 11 Lady Hunter rifles; Kristie’s in .308 and mine in 6.5 Creedmoor. Savage developed these rifles specifically to fit the female frame,with an oil-finish American walnut stock with a raised comb custom-tailored to a woman’s contours, as well as a shortened length of pull and slender grip and fore-end. The balance point of the 20-inch, light-taper barrel has been shifted, making it feel lighter, yet it provides enough weight to absorb recoil. These are good-looking and great-shooting rifles that are also light and handy to carry in the field; mine shoots sub-MOA at 200 yards and I have used it to take both deer and pronghorn. Learn more at savagearms.com.

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Africa has several types of zebras, each of them of a slightly different stripe.

Photo above: A family group of Cape mountain zebras, in typical mountain habitat in South Africa’s Cape Mountains. Both Hartmann mountain and Cape mountain zebras are typically found in small family groups, rarely in larger herds.

Is there a more recognizable African animal than the zebra? I’m fascinated by the similar—yet so different—striping patterns in different types of zebras. It took me forty years, but I’ve seen all the recognized species, subspecies, and races of zebras. The last was the Sudan maneless zebra, which is not exactly maneless, but with a distinctively short mane. They are starting to drift into Uganda from Sudan’s far-southeast East Equatoria Province. I saw some in Uganda’s Karamoja District in 2017, and got some excellent photographs of a small group there in 2021.

It would be silly to try to hunt all the zebras. There are differences, but few people in your neighborhood would remark on the different striping. Also, it can’t be done. The Sudan maneless zebra is protected, as it should be. Likewise, so is the pin-striped, big-eared, distinctly different Grevy zebra. Licenses were available when I hunted in Kenya, but we didn’t get up into the far north where they occur. Joe Bishop and I saw quite a few Grevy zebra in Ethiopia’s Danakil Depression in 2000, but they were off-license and protected.

So, you won’t catch me talking about a “zebra slam.” However, regardless of where you are hunting in Africa, or which set of stripes you are looking at, I recommend a zebra be included on a first-safari wish list. Yeah, I recognize that horse-lovers have issues. Okay, but the zebra is not the same animal as a horse. With keen senses and surprisingly effective natural camouflage (in shadows and brush), the zebra is not easy to hunt. Also, it can be the very Devil to sort out a stallion, which is usually the goal.

My two daughters, Brittany and Caroline, both put zebras at the top of their wish lists on their first African hunts. Must have listened to my propaganda. Like many young ladies, they were horse-lovers, but wanted zebra rugs…and both were surprised at how difficult it was to get close, find the right animal, and get clean shots.

According to current thinking, there are three species of zebra, all in the Equus genus: Plains zebra, E. quagga; Grevy’s zebra, E. grevyi; and mountain zebra, the type specimen, E. zebra. Without question, my favorite zebra has long been Namibia’s Hartmann mountain zebra. Large-bodied, with distinctive “Christmas tree” rump markings, the best thing about the Hartmann zebra is that it offers a marvelously fun and often difficult hunt in their native mountains along the spine of central Namibia.

Today, it isn’t always a mountain hunt. Hartmann zebras have been widely introduced, and are now often found on the same properties with common, plains, or Burchell zebras. There’s probably no harm, because they don’t seem to interbreed, but hunting them is not the same experience. I saw a Hartmann zebra on my first hunt in Namibia in 1979, a lone stallion far up on a mountain. I was enthralled; back then the Hartmann zebra was uncommon.

In 1981, Ben Nolte and I started from the bottom, climbed the spine of the Erongo Mountains, heard zebras whistling, worked in above them. Looking straight down on a small group, it took us forever to be certain which was the stallion. I was shooting a Ruger No. 1 in .375 H&H.

Since then, I’ve taken a couple more, always a great hunt in genuine mountains where they are native. Hunting with Mare van der Merwe at his African Twilight outfit southwest of Windhoek, we hiked far up into the mountains and Donna took a big stallion from one canyon to another. As she likes to say, “No girl can have too many zebras.”

There are several races of plains zebra, some regional and arguable, somewhat confused by the late nineteenth century colonial race, when everyone wanted an animal named after them. Significant variations include pure black-and-white striping, like the Grant zebra of East Africa; and the gray shadow stripes of the Burchell.

There are two mountain zebras: The more common Hartmann mountain zebra (E. z. hartmannae), primarily in Namibia, but extending into southwestern Angola and introduced into northwestern South Africa. Then, there’s the Cape mountain zebra, E. z. zebra, identified in Cape Colony before Europeans set foot in now-Namibia. I saw some at a distance years ago but wouldn’t have a chance to appreciate the differences until I shot one, in 2023. Here’s the big visual difference between the mountain varieties and all plains zebras: With mountain zebras, vertical body stripes stop low on the flanks. With plains zebras, stripes continue to the belly line.

References suggest the Cape mountain zebra is the smallest zebra. Maybe, but the Selous zebra of coastal Mozambique (and formerly, Malawi) is noticeably smaller than other plains zebras. I’ll give you that the Cape mountain zebra is smaller than Hartmann…but not by so much. It was apparently always restricted to a small range in rough country straddling South Africa’s Eastern and Western Cape provinces. Like several other indigenous South African species—blaubok, bontebok, black wildebeest, quagga—the Cape mountain zebra was almost extirpated during the settlement era. The bontebok, Cape mountain zebra, and black wildebeest were saved from extinction only by a few farmers who had the last of their kind on their land and were forward-thinking enough to understand they should be conserved.

That wasn’t the end of the story. The Mountain Zebra National Park was established near Craddock in 1938, but that population died out by 1950. Fortunately, private conservation by a few landowners had continued. Zebras were reintroduced into the Park from neighboring farms, and genuine recovery began. Today there are not many, just a few thousand, in Mountain Zebra and other parks, and on private land.

It may seem unthinkable that such a scarce animal could be hunted, but it’s important to understand South Africa’s management system, which works. Nationwide, it has allowed a thirty-fold increase in wildlife in the last forty years. In South Africa, wildlife is largely privatized, at the discretion of the landowner. If it pays, it stays. If it doesn’t pay, there is livestock that will. With South Africa much like Texas, primarily private land, this system has worked well for wildlife.

The IUCN Redbook of Threatened Species has now declassified the Cape mountain zebra from Endangered to Vulnerable. US Fish and Wildlife takes a more rigid stance: Americans are not allowed to import Cape mountain zebras into the United States. This is unfortunate for the farmers who are protecting them and feeding them instead of more profitable species, wild or domestic.

The opportunity was unplanned and unexpected. In July 2023, I was hunting with Fred Burchell at the Burchell family’s Frontier Safaris in the Eastern Cape (yes, the Burchell zebra is named after a direct ancestor). Fred manages the taxidermy side, and he wanted a Cape mountain zebra for the lodge. It didn’t take much arm-twisting to talk me into it. The farm we went to was a couple hours farther east, deeper into the Cape mountains.

The older gentleman who owned the farm had a nice and growing herd of Cape mountain zebras. His harvest is conservative and sustainable at three or four per year. He could take a couple more, would like to. But in that region, most visiting hunters are Americans. Unable to export the skins, few wish to hunt them. For me, it was a rare opportunity. I knew I couldn’t take it home, but Fred wanted the skin. 

We spent a couple of hours glassing and looking, seeing little, then spotted a lone zebra trotting over a ridge. We started climbing, saw the herd from the ridge-top, then hiked over a couple more ridges, me feeling the 6,000-foot elevation.

They held up in a tight valley, a small herd. We worked in to 250 yards and I set up against a stout, stubby tree, rifle over my pack. We thought we knew which zebra was the stallion, but we needed to be 100 percent certain. It (he?) didn’t move for long eternities, then finally two of the mares moved off to the right and the supposed stallion followed. Yes, for sure.

I was shooting Fred’s Remington M700 Sendero in 7mm Remington Magnum, plenty of gun for zebra, but I was concerned about the 150-grain bullet. Zebra stallions are large and tough, and we weren’t sure we’d have enough penetration for the classic broadside shoulder shot.

But we couldn’t have orchestrated it better. The now-for-sure stallion took a couple steps, and gave me a quartering-away shot. I pressed the trigger with the vertical crosshair in the crease behind the shoulder. He made two steps and was down.

Although a big stallion, he was somewhat smaller than most Hartmann zebras I’ve seen, gorgeous skin unscarred and perfect. Coloring was darker, body stripes very black. His face and “Christmas tree” were much like the Hartmann zebra. Most striking—as the books say—the jet-black rump stripes were broader than on any zebra I have seen. I wish I could take him home, but I can’t, and I think that’s short-sighted management. I was happy for the experience, and I’ll be back at Frontier Safaris. I look forward to visiting him there.

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Martha Maxwell left a legacy as one of America’s most influential taxidermists.

While wandering around the fascinating Cowgirls of the West museum in downtown Cheyenne, Wyoming, recently, I came across a photo that stopped me in my tracks. The blurry black-and-white image showed a display of mounted mule deer, elk, pronghorn, and bighorn sheep to rival any trophy room in the Great Hunters books, all of them arrayed in natural-looking habitats. Next to this photo was a studio shot of the taxidermist who had created the display—an intrepid-looking woman leaning on a rifle, a hound at her feet. Reading the accompanying text, I learned that the taxidermy display was featured at the 1876 Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia, and was one of the most popular exhibits at the international fair. The woman’s name was Martha Maxwell, and she was, like me, a native Pennsylvanian who ended up living and hunting in Colorado. Intrigued, I set out to learn more about her. 

 Born Martha Dartt in 1831 in Tioga County, Pennsylvania, Martha developed an appreciation for the natural world from traipsing the hills of northern Pennsylvania with her grandmother.  Her family ended up in Baraboo, Wisconsin, and in 1854 she married James Maxwell, a local businessman twenty years her senior with six children. In 1857 they had a daughter of their own, named Mabel. Around the time Mabel was born, James apparently lost everything in the Panic of 1857. Looking for a new start, the couple headed west, joining the Pikes Peak Gold Rush. They left Mabel with Martha’s family in Baraboo, and arrived in the Colorado Territory in 1860, settling in Nevadaville.

Like most of the hopefuls who staked a mining claim, James failed to strike it rich. Martha was smarter, making money off the miners themselves, first by doing washing and other chores, and later opening a boardinghouse. She invested the money she earned, and bought a cabin on the plains east of Denver. Legend has it when the couple attempted to move into the cabin, they found a squatter already living there. The squatter, a German, turned out to be a taxidermist, and when they booted the man out, Martha found a big collection of mounts in the cabin. This apparently sparked her desire to learn the art, and she sent away for a how-to book on the subject. 

In 1862 Martha returned to Wisconsin to take care of her daughter and ailing mother, and while there she continued her study of taxidermy. She returned to Colorado in 1867 at the behest of her husband, and that’s when she got into serious hunting and collecting. She began taking extended hunting trips into the Rockies, starting out with small animals such as chipmunks and hawks, and later taking a great many species of big game, including bison, elk, and pronghorn. Within a year or so she had more than 100 specimens, and received an invitation to exhibit them at the 1868 Colorado Agricultural Society exhibition. She surrounded each animal with its realistic natural habitat; she has been credited as the first taxidermist to do so. Her display was a hit and she won a $50 prize.

A few years later, in an attempt to turn her hobby into a moneymaking career, Martha opened her own museum in Boulder, where animals including a bear, a mountain lion, and a bison were on display, surrounded by her signature elaborate habitats. In 1875 she moved the museum to Denver, where she hoped to attract more visitors. 

By then, Martha had become an expert taxidermist.  She developed a number of new techniques, experimenting with plaster molds and iron frames over which she stretched preserved skins. Most taxidermists of the day were simply sewing skins together and then stuffing them with filler, which led to some horrible-looking mounts.

Martha was also an expert naturalist, and she kept up a correspondence with biologists at the Smithsonian. She sent them the first black-footed ferret they had ever seen; the animal had been described by explorers, but Martha was the first to mount one. She also discovered and described the western subspecies of the screech owl, which was subsequently named Otus asio maxwelliae (Mrs. Maxwell’s owl).

In 1876, the Territory of Colorado sent Martha to Philadelphia for the Centennial Exposition. She created a complex diorama that included numerous species she had hunted and mounted. She placed plains species and mountain species in their appropriate habitats and posed them at representative elevations. Her display even included small live mammals, including prairie dogs. The display was a huge hit—most Easterners had never seen Western animals or Western habitats, and Martha’s display immersed them in both. 

Apparently some visitors were skeptical. “How could a woman do it?” “Did she kill ’em all?” “What sort of a woman is she?” were some of the questions that bombarded Martha’s half-sister Mary Dartt, who was helping out at the expo. Annoyed, Mary put up a sign that read, “Woman’s Work” and assured visitors that yes, Martha had done all the hunting and taxidermy work that went into the display. Between May and November 1876, the expo attracted some 9.8 million visitors.

Unfortunately the “Colorado Huntress,” as Martha was known by then, never returned to Colorado. Estranged from her husband and unable to make her various attempts at museums financially successful, she moved to Rockaway Beach, New York. By this time she was suffering from cancer, which was apparently not unusual for early taxidermists as a result of their work with potent chemicals. Martha died in 1881, having left a legacy that later influenced America’s greatest taxidermists, including Carl Akeley and William Hornaday.

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This huge antelope is a challenge to hunt and fantastic on the dinner table.

We were looking for a big kudu. If kudu is on license and your menu, you’re always looking for a big kudu! We were headed west, about an hour before sunset. Kudu o’clock was coming fast, our intention to use the last rays to glass a big north-facing ridge.

Fred Burchell hissed, “Eland,” and eased the Land Cruiser to a halt. Three bulls off to the right, across a brushy flat, trotting along the base of a rocky ridge. Few animals are as switched-on as eland. I didn’t move at first, expecting them to continue that mile-eating eland trot, around the corner of the ridge and gone,

Amazingly, they stopped under a scruffy tree and began to feed. Three hundred yards. When Mother Nature offers a gift, one shouldn’t kick sand in her face.

Now we moved. Slowly and quietly, Fred out the right and back to grab sticks, me out the left with rifle and forward, hoping to clear some brush. No way this would go down—the elands were sure to run—but we had to go through the motions.

Fred was with me in an instant. Bullet path clear, rifle up and steady, three mature eland bulls standing without a care in the world. The only slight problem: The low sun was straight into the scope. I’d have them, then the scope would go black. Then I’d have them again. “Which one?”

“Any of them. Let me look again.” Trust me, this is not a dilemma I’ve faced on eland. Then, “I think the bull on the left is the oldest.”

He was standing broadside, head to the right. Then the scope went black again. Fred Burchell is young, but I’ve known him for years, good hunter and PH. Seeing the problem, he took off his cap and angled it between objective lens and sun.

Now I could see them. Same position, bull on the left, other two just in front of him, clear. Conscious that I wasn’t shooting a big gun, I held at the back of the burly shoulder, just below the midpoint.

The shot felt good, impact sounded solid. The eland didn’t run. The chosen bull simply swapped ends, now facing left. Fred confirmed, “On the left. Shoot him again.”

Same hold on the opposite side, couple inches higher in case I’d misjudged the drop. Same weird result, no immediate reaction. I had just started a third trigger squeeze when he swapped ends once more, and went straight down.

The eland is not the most beautiful of Africa’s antelope. He is not as dramatic as a greater kudu, as stately as a waterbuck, nor as breathtakingly majestic as a sable. He is the largest African antelope. Mature bulls vary in size and weight. References start at 1,300 pounds. This is minimal. I’m convinced that outsized bulls on good feed can top a ton. Live weights are elusive but, visually, a mature eland bull is bigger than a Cape buffalo.

Also, tastier. To me, eland is the finest wild meat in the world. Tender, flavorful, almost marbled like good beef. My advice to anyone considering taking an eland: Try to get him in the first few days. You’ll eat well the rest of the safari.

Sound logic, difficult to pull off. Although widespread, the eland is difficult to hunt. Not only are they (usually) wary, they cover a lot of country with that ground-eating trot. There’s no predicting where or when you might run into them. Unlike smaller antelopes, eland leave tracks that can be followed. I’ve tracked both common and Lord Derby elands for many miles, and I’ve stalked others over hill and dale.

This was the first eland I’ve ever taken in a pure chance encounter. Mother Nature offered; we accepted. Not something to be proud of; sometimes you just get lucky. I was at the Burchell family’s Frontier Safaris in South Africa’s Eastern Cape, a big area running from high mountain to deep valley. Eland need a lot of room, so I wouldn’t say they’re plentiful, but they’re around. I’ve taken eland there before, after careful looking. A year earlier, we hunted hard for eland for much of the safari, never got one. You never know.

This awesome bull was a wonderful gift at sundown on the second day. We were going to eat well. First, we had a problem: Fred’s winch was out and we needed to load him.  It took some bush engineering, multiple attempts, and a lot of grunting and straining. Fortunately, there were five of us (four young and strong). We got it done just an hour after dark.

It seems to me a disservice to call this animal the “common” eland. There is nothing common about it. However, there must be nomenclature to distinguish Taurotragus oryx from Lord Derby giant eland, T. derbianus. Despite the name, I’m not convinced that giant eland are consistently bigger in the body. For sure, they are bigger in the horn; giant eland horns start where common eland horns stop. The giant eland also has much more color: black nose, black neck collar (in winter coat), and brilliant white side stripes. They are geographically separated, with no hybrid zone. Today, their range is restricted to Central African Republic and Cameroon, above the big forest, with a small population remaining far to the west in Senegal.

Although habitat differs, hunting all eland is similar: usually difficult. We divide common eland into three races. Since I was in South Africa’s Eastern Cape, mine was unquestionably a Cape eland. Shortest horns, smallest body, although outsized bulls may dispute this. Our bull was normally big, not outsized, otherwise we’d never have loaded him whole. The biggest difference: Mature Cape elands have no vertical body stripes. Color is generally tan or fawn, although older bulls can run to gray, what they call “blue bulls.” Cape elands are found throughout South Africa, southern Botswana, and most of Namibia except the far north.

To their north, up through Mozambique and Zambia, is the Livingstone eland, with defined vertical white stripes. Livingtone eland has the longest horns among the common eland, and is (again theoretically) the largest in body. Off to the northeast, in Kenya and Tanzania, elands are considered East African or Paterson eland. The book says they have vertical white stripes, but there are variances. The bull I took in Kenya, near Tsavo, did not, but I’ve seen bulls in Tanzania that did. Often, the stripes are so muted as to be almost invisible.

Namibia has a hybrid zone between Cape and Livingstone. Per the books, only the eland in the very far north are Livingstone. However, in central Namibia, south of Etosha, I’ve seen bulls that had faint vertical stripes, and others that didn’t.

Doesn’t matter. All the eland are tasty, all mature bulls are magnificent, and the bull I lucked into was a dandy. We had a couple young guys with us, so I’m not sure if Fred was speaking for my benefit or theirs, but what he said as we were admiring our eland is worth repeating:

“Here’s what you look for in an eland bull. First, body. Mature bulls are visibly larger than females, with massive shoulders and a big dewlap. Second, color. Most bulls grow darker as they age, and stand out in a herd. Third, look for the forehead brush, darker and longer on dominant bulls. Finally, look at the horns.”

With eland, males and females grow similar horns. In a herd, it’s not easy to sex them, and more difficult with younger bulls. A mature bull will have significantly heavier horn bases, and usually a well-defined spiraling keel on the lower horn. Older bulls wear down their tips, so often have horns that are short and very thick; cow horns are often longer, but always thinner. My bull had just started to wear his tips. For perfection, he could have been a year or two older, probably would never have been longer. Another saying: Don’t look a gift eland in the mouth.

I’ve shot a couple eland with fast .30s and heavy bullets, couple more with medium magnums (8mm and .33). That said, eland bulls are huge, and I believe strongly they’re in “.375 territory.” We weren’t looking for eland, and I used what I had. Which was a 7mm Remington Magnum with too-light 150-grain bullets. Legal, but risky. That’s why I was careful to place my shots tight behind the shoulder: I doubted the bullet would penetrate the heavy shoulder. On a behind-the-shoulder shot, I knew the bullets wouldn’t exit, but believed they would reach deeply into the lungs, which is what both bullets did. There was not much reaction, but he was down on the spot.

I don’t recommend being undergunned for eland—or anything else. But I wasn’t going to kick sand in Mother Nature’s face, and I was looking forward to some fine eland steaks.   

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Thomas McIntyre’s last book is truly his magnum opus.

Thunder without Rain: A Memoir with Dangerous Game–God’s Cattle, the African Buffalo is Thomas McIntyre’s last book, completed shortly before his death in November 2022 and published by Skyhorse Publishing this spring. The title comes from a saying by the Yoruba, the natives of the region that is now Nigeria, Benin, and Togo: “When you hear thunder without rain, it is the buffalo approaching.”

The buffalo is central to the cultures and traditions of many Africans, and it can also become a powerful influence in the lives of people like the author who travel to Africa to hunt it. This is not a book that is easily categorized. As the author says in the Preface, it’s not a natural history, biography, scientific treatise, or literary essay, although it contains elements of all of those things. It is, in fact, a memoir, albeit an unconventional one.

From the time he first set eyes on a mounted buffalo head at the age of four, McIntyre’s entire life was profoundly influenced by his ongoing quest for Syncerus caffer. That head sparked far more than just the desire to travel to Africa–it set him on a lifelong search for what makes the African buffalo so compelling. He takes us along as he seeks the buffalo not just in the physical environs of Africa but also in history, science, literature, art, and tradition. He shares the fruits of this quest with us in this powerful and fascinating book.

There is plenty of hunting action in Thunder without Rain; the author includes vivid descriptions of segments of his safaris in Kenya, Zimbabwe, Central African Republic, and Burkina Faso over a space of fifty years. Between and related to the safari stories is an incredible amount of wide-ranging and well-researched information about the buffalo and its effects on humankind, reaching back through archeological exploration and colonial settlement. The author discusses how buffalo affected and influenced other hunters, including such famous names as Samuel Baker, Frederick Selous, and Theodore Roosevelt.

McIntyre’s safari memories are interspersed with reflections on his childhood, especially his troubled relationship with his father. The effects of his African experiences on the rest of his life come through potently in McIntyre’s retelling, as he finds solace and meaning in treading the game trails of Africa. Grappling with the demons of his childhood also sparks thoughts on the meaning of courage, and the facing of a buffalo charge as a metaphor for gaining the fortitude to embrace life is a recurring theme throughout. Courage is also required as the author bears witness to changes beyond his control that negatively affect the continent of Africa and its wildlife, including his beloved buffalo.

A full third of Thunder without Rain consists of Endnotes. You don’t have to read them to enjoy the book, but I suggest you spend some time paging through them, since they add interesting and amplifying information to the rest of the text.

I had the privilege of editing Thomas McIntyre’s Backcountry column in Sports Afield magazine for many years, and I always admired the depth of his writing, the amazing breadth of his knowledge, and his meticulous research. But the magazine article format is rather limiting, and McInytre was always at his best in his many excellent books, where he had the free rein to really delve into his topic.

It’s possible he knew Thunder without Rain might be his last book. It’s been called, accurately, his magnum opus. It’s a deep dive into the essence of the African buffalo and the search for what it means to live a full and true life, a life that for the author was deeply enriched by his experiences with one of Africa’s premier dangerous game animals.

If you have your own fascination with buffalo, Africa, and all things wild, you should read Thunder without Rain. It’s available from Amazon.com and other booksellers.

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It’s incredible to see our brand on the front cover of License Global’s Top Global Licensors issue! For the eighth consecutive year, Sports Afield has been honored with the prestigious recognition of being chosen as one of License Global magazine’s Top Global Licensors.

As the foremost publication in the brand-name industry, License Global meticulously curates a list of the most influential global brands annually. This year, in 2023, we are ecstatic to announce that Sports Afield has once again made the cut, solidifying our position among the industry’s elite.

The entire team at Sports Afield is filled with immense pride and gratitude for this remarkable achievement, and we sincerely thank our loyal supporters for their unwavering trust and continued patronage. Our dedication to providing exceptional products and experiences remains steadfast, and we look forward to scaling new heights in the years to come.

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California’s Central Coast has some of the earliest deer seasons in the country.

For most of us, August is for fishing or baseball, with deer season weeks (or months) away. Here in Central California, however, our coastal rifle season starts the second Saturday in August. Around here, rifle deer hunters are getting ready. Bowhunters are already in the woods; the 2023 archery season opened on July 8^th.

I tell folks this and they look at me like I have three heads. Deer hunting in August? This has been our “A-Zone” season for decades. I know it goes back fifty years, probably much farther. Since it’s traditional, I can’t explain the management rationale. Seems to me that most rifle deer seasons across the country are either purposefully pre-rut or post-rut. Those of us who get to hunt the rut are fortunate.

In our case August is obviously pre-rut, but not by as much as you might think. Our winters are mild and usually catch most of whatever rain we get. There is no winter stress, but summers are long, dry, and brutally hot. Our deer probably didn’t ask when the season should be set, but they have their own unique schedule. Typically, they are in full rut by late September, essential so the does can drop fawns in early spring, when conditions are still soft and green with plenty of water.

Our early season isn’t as bad as it sounds for rifle hunters. This year it opens August 12 and runs until September 24. September will see pre-rut activity, and the bucks should be chasing hard by the last weekend of the season.

Personally, I’m not crazy about taking antlered game in velvet; antlers are more difficult to judge, and development may not be complete. Because few seasons are held this early, a lot of hunters are attracted to bucks in velvet as “something different.” This I can’t guarantee. During our July bow season bucks are in heavy velvet. However, they start to rub by early August, so it’s a grab bag in rifle season.

Just before Covid, Donna shot a magnificent 4×4 on opening day. That’s a big buck in our part of the world, fully developed and in full velvet. Whether in early August or on through September, most of my coast zone bucks have been in hard antler.

Some discussion is needed as to what our deer are. Obviously, they’re a mule deer subspecies, but which one? Local hunters call them “Pacific bucks,” a nonexistent subspecies. I live in San Luis Obispo County and have done most of my coastal deer hunting in Monterey County just to the north. The Boone and Crockett line for Columbian blacktail deer starts just north of Monterey Country, so, our deer are not Columbian blacktails by B&C standards.

Technically, our deer are mostly blacktail, with black-striped tails and small ears. To the south and west there is potential for California mule deer influence, and that’s B&C’s position. SCI takes a more liberal stance, including our deer as Columbian blacktails in their record book.

Our deer are small-bodied and, because of summer stress and poorly managed genetics, antlers are small. A buck that meets B&C standards for Columbian blacktail is highly unlikely in our neighborhood. I have never taken a clean 4×4 in the Coast Zone; my best local deer was an awesome 4×3, taken in September up near King City, 50 miles north. At full maturity, many of our better deer are 3x3s, and many bucks never get past two points per side. Doesn’t matter, these are our deer, and this is our deer season. 

Ours is not the only August deer season.  South Carolina’s “low country” whitetail season also opens in August, long traditional with no limit on bucks. Obviously, whitetails are plentiful (and overpopulated), but with a limit like that quality is generally not good, and buck-to-doe ratios are poor. I hunted there just once, took a nice 8-point just stripping his velvet. Naturally, it was warm and humid, but not miserable, stand hunting like most whitetail hunting. What I remember most vividly is looking down and realizing I was sharing the stand with a copperhead. Not my best moment, but probably the most benign of South Carolina’s venomous serpents. Early season in South Carolina is probably the place to take a whitetail buck in velvet.

Alaska opens its Sitka blacktail season in August, but that’s different: August isn’t early in Alaska, with caribou and sheep also open. Sitka blacktails are absolutely in hard antler in August; these deer drop their antlers before Thanksgiving. Cover is thick and green and the deer are higher up, but August is a mild, early fall month up there.

I don’t have much experience in South Carolina and haven’t hunted Sitka blacktails that early, but I have plenty of experience with our coast zone August hunting. It is not mild. Usually, it’s blazing hot, with midday temps often exceeding 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Sounds miserable, but wait. California’s Central Coast has one of the largest average “midnight to noon” temperature swings in the continental United States. A 50-degree change is normal, 60 degrees not unusual.

In large part, that’s what makes our coastal deer hunting enjoyable. You start at dawn needing a good jacket, peeling layers as the day heats up. There is a caution. For many years, my coastal deer hunting was DIY, either on public land or private ground where I had permission. Better have a good plan. Get a deer down late in the morning and it’s a foot race to the cooler. At noon, when the mercury pushes toward 110, it’s dangerous to be packing deer. You can say “it’s a dry heat,” all you want, but it’s still plenty hot.

Years ago, Payton Miller and I were hunting with the late Durwood Hollis on a piece of property he had adjoining Fort Hunter Liggett. Payton and I were back in camp, Durwood missing, couple hours after dark when he stumbled in with a nice buck on his pack frame. Long out of water, he was in bad shape.

Typically, we get in a good morning hunt, then it’s a long, leisurely day and a short evening hunt. Usually, the temperature doesn’t drop noticeably until the sun gets low, so it’s pretty much the last hour before deer start to move. It’s also a short night. Dark comes late, dawn comes early.

Despite the heat, there is a surprising amount of midday movement. These deer live in the summer heat. They aren’t going to stay bedded from dawn to dusk and will often drink at midday. Tom Willoughby and I were sitting in the shade one blistering afternoon, watching some water. I thought he was nuts but, sure enough, about half past one three bucks appeared out of nowhere, one a very nice 3×3.

There are good outfitters in our local area, in part because we are the epicenter of California’s wild hog hunting. Hogs are their big business, but most have blacktails available. Those I know include Clay Avila’s Frontera Hunting, Chad Wiebe’s Oak Stone Outfitters, Don Anderson, and Tom Willoughby. Most famous right now is the deer hunting on Steinbeck Vineyard, managed by my friend Ryan Newkirk, well-known because several gun writers have been there and written about it.

Since I moved up here our Central Coast has become a major wine country. The local wine is awesome, the vineyards pretty and green. Sadly, most are game-fenced, blocking movement corridors and access to browse and water, and deer are generally not tolerated. I believe the wine industry has hurt our deer herd terribly. Steinbeck is unusual in that it is low-fenced, accepting crop losses from deer, and offering some deer hunting in return.

Hunting venison among the vines was a marvelous experience. Under careful management, Steinbeck’s well-fed bucks are larger in body than most of our local deer, and grow bigger antlers. They are also pre-marinated from eating grapes. That’s where Donna took her big 4×4.

I really enjoyed that hunt, but it was much different than the average deer hunt on our Central Coast. We have good deer—for what they are—but decent bucks are few and far between. We usually hunt hard to find them, lots of patient glassing. Usually, there’s some sweating as the day heats up, and a whole more if you must pack a buck out of a canyon.

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